control
by whocares10315
Summary: At twenty years old, Thomas has finally been able to live as a "normal" guy, despite his Tourette's. A college student with a job and plenty of friends, Thomas has it all. Most of his help is from his friend, Craig, but not in the way most would think…


[fanfic]  
**Title:** control  
**Author:** **whocares10315**  
**Pairing:** Thomas/Craig  
**Chapter:** introduction  
**Rating:** R for foul and vulgar language, mature concepts  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Matt and Trey's precious babies.  
**Author's Notes:** Haven't written fanfics in a long while. Randomly got re-inspired (a little bit by the movie, "Secretary") and this is what happened. Part of the story will be recounting how Thomas and Craig's "relationship" developed over time to get to the point of the introduction's content, then I also plan to write what comes after the introduction on the timeline. Craig/Tweek will also be present in later chapters. The points of view will alternate between Thomas and Craig after this. I tried to be as accurate as possible in terms of writing about Tourette's, but it's still a work of a fiction, so in no way does my writing reflect how Tourette's actually is. If it offends anyone, please let me know.  
**Summary:** At twenty years old, Thomas has finally been able to live as a "normal" guy, despite his Tourette's. A college student with a job and plenty of friends, Thomas has it all. Most of his help is from his friend, Craig, but not in the way most would think…

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introduction

Only about 10 percent of Tourette's patients exhibit coprolalia, or involuntary swearing. 10 percent. Thomas didn't even want to consider doing the math to figure out the percentage of people with coprolalia in the _world_.

It was a lonely number, but Thomas learned very quickly how to cope. It could even be said that he was forced to learn much too early in his life. Tourette's was ruthless to kids between ages five and eighteen. Thomas used to think of it like a rare and more severe version of puberty: it afflicts you at your most vulnerable, and one of your only comforts is the hope that it will either go away or get better when you're finally an adult.

At age twenty, Thomas knew better. But it wasn't all that unpleasant anymore. He could even muster up a little bit of pride in the fact that he could control the volume of his voice. He saw a good therapist, who had helpful things to say. His single mother has struggled, but has always been there for him. He had a job, and a hobby, keeping his stress levels down. All things considered, he led a good life. What else could he want?

"Hey."

Thomas removed himself from his own mind to turn around in his seat. He smiled, even when he knew the other wouldn't.

"Hi, Craig."

As he thought, Craig didn't smile, but Thomas knew that that wasn't any reflection of how Craig felt or thought. He knew him. Craig was good at hiding the truth in his character, even _inverting_it through his actions. Craig was good, but not quite as good as Thomas was.

"You done?" Craig averted his eyes, looking around, as if he found something of interest in the support group conference room. The Tourette's Tolerance and Understanding Foundation had plenty of informative and supportive posters on the wall that Thomas knew by heart, having been there for over ten years. But Thomas didn't have to ask to know that that's not what Craig was looking at the posters for.

It was to avoid looking at Thomas. To disconnect so overtly that Thomas knew better. Craig had done that for too long for Thomas to overlook it as actual carelessness. Thomas smiled more, getting up from his seat.

"Session ended like an hour ago, dude," Thomas laughed. It didn't' shock Thomas that Craig would be an hour late. He usually was, and Craig pushed everyone's buttons, not just his.

Thomas felt a tickle in his throat but suppressed it. His tics were only terrible when he was nervous or anxious, so Thomas devoted many long years to being level and sure. He watched Craig uncomfortably clench and unclench his hand a couple of times, almost like a flicker, before Craig simply turned around and left the room. Thomas always thought it was funny that nobody else seemed to realize that Craig had anxious tics of his own. Everyone else seemed to see a stoic, cynical, monotone being. But Thomas saw someone who was trying too hard to keep control over some volatile inner demons. And was only _just_passing. The difference between Craig and Thomas was that Thomas fooled everyone.

Everyone thoughtlessly went to pity and coddling when it came to Thomas. And for a long while, that was a warranted sentiment. Thomas had been a mess for the majority of his life. But anyone who continued to think that was true was either unobservant or uncaring.

"Shit. Fuck," Thomas murmured quietly. He followed Craig down the hall. He didn't want to think about how he _used_to be. It made him anxious.

Craig looked over his shoulder as he opened the door for Thomas, but said nothing in response to the tics. Thomas could tell that Craig had something to say, but was resisting vehemently. The fact that Craig tried so hard to control himself seemed so blatant to him. Thomas walked past Craig, almost brushing their chests together.

Thomas found that observation comforting. Comforting in that Craig was the embodiment of what he, himself, felt all the time. The need to control. And the fact that Craig was doing a less convincing job than him made him feel safe. Pleased, even.

They get into Craig's precious car—the one he spent years repairing—and were on their way. As always, Thomas clicked the radio on, flipped through all the channels, before turning it off and sighing, relieved. Craig pulled out a cigarette with his lips and lit it, eyes never leaving the road. Craig's car was one of many places the two of them shared their respective tics in.

"I didn't fold your laundry, you know," Craig finally mentioned, suddenly. "From earlier. I just left it." Thomas felt his chest tighten as he side-glanced at a smoking Craig, feigning nonchalance by keeping his eyes forward. Thomas found the habit both endearing and infuriating.

He had to hold his breath to keep that itching in his throat down. He managed a smile.

"Dude, I don't care," Thomas laughed off, leaning back in the seat and propping a knee up on the airbag. "Did you think I would?"

Craig didn't answer. Thomas didn't look to confirm it, but he could've sworn he saw Craig's hands tighten around the wheel in his peripherals.

"I also fucked up the clothes that were already in your drawers," Craig added, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Just took 'em all out."

Thomas resisted a smirk. Craig was anxious. And scrambling, no less. It was too easy.

"I'll just re-fold them, whatever," Thomas sighed, shutting his eyes with a gentle smile hovering over his lips. He lived for these moments.

"I left your wet laundry on the floor."

Thomas' eyes flickered open. Craig stopped at a red light to look at him. Even though Thomas could see the building tension behind Craig's indigo eyes, he let one slip:

"_Asshole!_S-so what? Do I look like I care? I don't care."

But Craig was starting to grin and Thomas knew he fumbled. Craig, of all people, knew that Thomas' tics were a sign of when he was getting on edge. When Craig, specifically, was getting him on edge.

Craig knew exactly how to make him angry.

Craig leaned over from his place, blowing smoke into Thomas' face. But that part never bothered him, Thomas had more self-control than that. But what Craig said next made it impossible for Thomas to resist any longer.

"And you know what?" Craig asked, grin widening when Thomas let another quiet "shit fuck" escape him. "I didn't even care."

Craig had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, so smug, so taunting. An expression that peers, even teachers have never seen. Craig was the deadpan king, but right then, he was sneering at Thomas. In Thomas' eyes, he was no king. Just a no-good, fucking _brat_.

"Motherfucker," Thomas whispered, feeling all the words bubbling inside of him, about to overflow. "You stupid cunt bitch whore."

When once embarrassed by his affliction, he found the effect it had on Craig all the more worthwhile.

"What sick person just leaves laundry on the fucking floor like an _animal_?" Thomas found himself spitting out, glaring at a now stony-faced Craig. "Are you an animal, you titty fucking _shit_?"

The same way the words escaped him, a tiny grunt escaped Craig. Thomas watched Craig lick his lips, cigarette forgotten in his long fingers. But neither of them could indulge when the car behind them alerted them to the green light.

"Fuck," Craig snarled, squealing out of there, as if he couldn't get to Thomas' place fast enough.

"Shit. Fucking _shit_!" Thomas found himself yelling, uninhibited.

Many years ago, his therapist had asked him to find a hobby with which he could use as an outlet for his tics. Most people just found a space to let themselves _go_in, after a mentally exhausting day of holding the tics in.

Hours later, Thomas would have Craig bent over, wrists cuffed to a pipe in his basement, leaving him there for a couple of hours to do his homework for school the next day.

Though it took several years, and wasn't at all conventional, Thomas found a hobby, all right.

But it hadn't always been like that.

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~*Love? Hate? Undecided? Let me know. Thanks for reading!*~


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